Innocent Fire (31 page)

Derek was too weak to search for Miranda, but he set out anyway, while the trail was still fresh. A week had passed since the fever had abated, and he could only guess how many days had gone by before that, since the attack. A week at most, he thought, but with luck only three or four days. Miranda was a week and half or two ahead of him. His wounds were bound tightly, healing, but he was weak and his movements stiff and sore. He was half a man right now, and he knew it. But he had his guns. He could shoot as straight as ever, and he had his eyes—he could track.

Their trail was old, and he lost it time and time again. Because he was weak, he had to travel slowly, stopping often to rest in exhaustion. But he pushed on. There had been six Comanche carcasses around the camp, and he soon saw that he was following six other braves, one riding with extra weight—his wife. He was terribly afraid.

He knew this time was worse than Chavez. Chavez had been obsessed, and had wanted her for himself. He knew it was the Comanche way to rape every female captive, each brave taking a turn if he so desired. What if they killed her from repeated rape? He felt sick inside.

If he ever found her, he would send her back to England. That was where she belonged. She didn’t deserve
the punishment this savage land inflicted on its frontiersmen. It was a promise he made to himself, one he would keep.

He also prayed to God, once, before he set out. It was the only time in his life he had ever prayed. He got down on his knees, his hands clasped as he’d seen her do, and closed his eyes. He begged God for her life, for she was pure and good and faithful. He didn’t try to make a bargain, didn’t offer anything in return, he just begged. He had never been so humble.

Five days out of camp he found signs of a Comanche campsite. He saw where the extra-weighted horse had stopped, its rider dismounting, and then the scuffed area where Miranda had obviously been dropped, or had fallen. From there he saw she had been dragged a short distance away, on her back. He could see heel marks and claw marks—her fingers. The spot she had been dragged to was surrounded by footprints, moving back and forth in a circle around her. He was sick, because these signs unfurled the story as if he were seeing it, and he did, with his Apache eye. They had all raped her, there, where he was standing.

There were also signs that two riders had approached, big men on loaded-down horses, at least one of whom was white. One man had worn boots, a man lean and light. A big, heavy man had worn moccasins. There were empty jugs of whiskey scattered around, chewed tobacco, the remains of a fire, and a deer carcass. He understood. Miranda had left with these men, had been sold to them. And these men had walked over to her too, inspecting—and perhaps even raping her.

His resolve outweighed his physical fatigue, and he pushed on, following the two men who had headed south and east. These tracks were easier to follow, for the horses were so heavily burdened. He rode until it was too dark to see, and then he fell from his horse, forcing himself to eat the smoked venison he had brought with him. At dawn he rode again.

He rode into Galveston with grim determination.

He had lost their trail a day ago, but by that time, there was no doubt in his mind that they were heading for Galveston. They had avoided all other towns, settlements and even farms and ranches. Derek knew why. It was because Miranda was their prisoner.

He was afraid. There was a strong possibility that Miranda wasn’t even there, but had been sold again and shipped south, to a Mexican brothel. He quelled the rising sickness and dread such thinking brought. He knew he must be about a month behind her. He had been making bad time, especially at first, and he had also lost the trail time and time again, having to double back to find it.

He intended to comb every saloon and brothel in Galveston before heading to the waterfront. He had prayed to God before that she was all right. Now he just prayed—to anyone who would listen—that he would find her here.

A few hours later he was at the end of his rope, feeling despair, losing hope, having covered every saloon and brothel except for the two closest to the waterfront. He rode up to the Red Garter as dusk was settling in. The streets were quieting down, but the din from within the saloon was increasing. He slipped off his chestnut gracefully, his stiffness and soreness having gone away. Some
times at night the stab wound in his back ached when it was damp.

He brushed through the wide swinging doors, scanning the room. Already the saloon was full of rugged, dirty men—sailors and travelers and men in buckskin, shouting and laughing, slamming empty glasses down and demanding more. Three girls floated among the men, serving drinks, all in garish satin dresses revealing almost complete expanses of bosom. He had a sinking feeling, then walked to the bar and found a spot between a sailor who didn’t speak English and a huge man who smelled like bear and grease. The bartender saw him, and came over some moments later.

“A whiskey,” Derek said.

The man poured.

“I’m looking for a woman,” he said as the man pushed the glass at him.

“You’re in the right place.” Cleeve grinned.

“This woman is young, seventeen, with violet eyes and black hair. She’s beautiful, but thin. Her name is Miranda.”

Cleeve squinted, taking the money Derek had flipped onto the bar. “No gal like that here.”

His heart sank.

“Why you looking for this particular one?”

“She’s my wife,” Derek said. “And she was abducted by Comanche, then sold to white slavers.”

Cleeve made a noise of sympathy and walked away to serve another customer.

Bragg gulped the whiskey down in one shot. He had one last place to try. He wouldn’t hang out here, he was impatient. He pressed away from the bar.

And then he saw her coming down the stairs.
Miranda
.

He froze, taking her in, unable to believe his eyes. She was pale and thin, but breathtakingly lovely in a fragile, delicate way. She was wearing a whore’s red satin dress, and he became angry—angry at what she was showing, angry that she was coming from upstairs; he knew damn well what went on up those stairs. He reached her in four strides, just as she hit the bottom step, and grabbed her, crying, “Miranda!”

She saw him, and rushed into his arms, clinging, trembling, crying his name.

“You’re alive,” Derek groaned. “Oh God…”

“Derek, Derek, I thought they killed you,” she wept.

“I’ll never let you out of my sight again,” he said harshly. And a second later, he felt a steel barrel in his back.

“Let her go,” Cleve said.

Derek froze, releasing Miranda.

“Cleeve, he’s my husband, don’t!” Miranda cried.

“You gonna leave by yourself?” Cleeve drawled. “Or do I escort you outside?”

Derek stared at him.

Cleeve smiled slightly, waving the gun barrel. “Get lost, mister.”

Derek saw her moving before he could stop her. With a look of rage, she leaped for Cleeve, her nails going for his face. As Cleeve tried to defend himself, Derek knocked the gun away. He grabbed his wife like a striking snake, one arm clamping around her waist, pulling her off Cleeve, holding her against his body, his other hand drawing his Colt. Miranda relaxed against him. The men at the table nearest them leaped up and away from their chairs. Cleeve stared, and everyone in the saloon turned their attention to him.

“My name is Derek Bragg,” Derek said to Cleeve. “And in case my reputation hasn’t preceded me, I’m a Ranger.” He paused to let the implication sink in. “This is my wife. Anyone who tries to stop me will precipitate mass slaughter, because nothing would give me greater pleasure than to shoot up this saloon and everyone in it.”

There was absolute silence. No one moved. Derek smiled grimly. Then a woman in black satin stepped into the space where the bar ended.

“What’s going on?” Mollie demanded, stepping forward into the middle of the saloon. “Release my niece at once!”

“This is not your niece, ma’am,” Derek said, “but my wife. And right now I’m not taking too kindly to finding her here, whoring for you.”

Mollie was quick. “Miranda only serves drinks, ask
anyone. She needed a job. I gave her one, out of the kindness of my heart.”

Derek didn’t take his eyes off the men in front of him. “Miranda?”

“I never…never, Derek.”

He smiled grimly. “It’s your lucky day. You have earned the right to live by not allowing her to whore for you, but don’t press your luck. My trigger finger is itching.”

“Humph,” Mollie said.

Derek backed out of the saloon with Miranda pressed tightly against him, daring anyone to even think of trying to stop him. No one did.

He set her up on his horse, then leaped behind her, clutching her firmly again. He wheeled the horse, and they rode off.

Derek looked at Miranda, choking up from deep inside. They were in a hotel room in Galveston. She was weeping. “I thought you were dead. They took me away, and I thought you were dying.” She rushed to him. “Oh, Derek, thank God you’re alive!”

“I’m alive,” he said huskily. “Very much so. I couldn’t possibly die without rescuing you first.” He felt something wet on his face and was shocked when he realized it was his own tears.

“I wanted to die,” she moaned into his chest. “I didn’t care anymore, not without you. We rode for a day, days, I have no idea how long.”

He held her tighter. “Miranda, are you all right?” He had to know.

“Oh God, yes!”

He caught her face before she could press her mouth to his. “The Comanche—did they hurt you? And the child?”

Her eyes met his. “I wasn’t raped. They sold me right away, and the man who bought me was afraid of me—he thought I was crazy.”

His breath expelled. “And the baby?”

Miranda searched his gaze. “He’s fine.”

For a moment he just closed his eyes. “I have you back,” Derek said, the relief in his voice immense. He cupped her face.

“No,” she cried. “I have
you
back.” She slipped her hands up into his hair, clutching it. Pulling his head down, she kissed him frantically.

He was surprised, even more so when she forced his mouth open and began a fierce assault with her tongue.

“Miranda…”

“Love me,” she gasped, pulling him down onto the bed. “Love me!”

She still held his head, and she was partly on his chest, seeking his mouth again, desperately. She kissed his face all over, his eyes and his nose, his cheeks and then his mouth, and he exploded in response to her passion, needing her as much as she needed him. Desperate, mindless, except for the soaring, overwhelming sensation of loving each other so completely, they shed their clothes, stroking each other frantically, reeling, gasping, their tongues entwined.

“I love you,” Derek cried, shuddering, holding her face still in both his hands so he could imprision her mouth with his.

“I love you, too,” Miranda breathed, and he caught her hips, pulling her down to where he wanted her, kneeling between her thighs, poising his thick, straining shaft against her wet pink flesh. He looked into her eyes and she gazed back breathlessly. “I love you,” he said again, and then he glided into her.

As his length and width slowly filled her, he saw tears start, and she began to cry, harder and harder. “Miranda,” he gasped, not understanding, about to spiral out of control.

“I love you so much,” she sobbed, holding his head tightly, kissing him. He could taste her tears. “Never, Derek,” she said, her face still wet. “Never leave me—I never want us to be apart.”

“I’ll never leave you,” he said huskily, meaning it. He wrapped her in his arms, closing his eyes, thinking, feeling, knowing how much he loved her. And then his life seed burst from him in an explosion, draining, emptying. He shuddered into her, giving her everything he had, everything he could, and they were truly one.

He leaned on one elbow and smiled down at her. She met his gaze and smiled back; they held hands. “I love you,” he said huskily.

“I love you,” she said.

He reached out to touch her cheek. He let his hand drift down to cup her breasts, feeling hunger rising in him again. He stroked the smooth, swollen flesh, marveling at her beauty. He ran his hand down her torso, to the slight swell of her abdomen. He rested it there, then slowly began to rub the faint mound.

“I was afraid you had died before I could ever tell you how much I love you,” she said.

“Tell me now.”

“I could never live without you,” she said. Their eyes met, held.

“Your skin is so smooth,” he whispered, exploring her belly, fascinated with its shape, its firmness, its silkiness. He bent over to flick a nipple into hardness with his tongue. She let out a breath. He took it into his mouth, sucking gently. His encircling caresses expanded, dropping lower. He slid a finger into the wet, moist valley below. She trembled.

He stroked her gently, his mouth playing with her nipple. She clutched his head and spread her thighs, arching
for him. Gently, he rolled her onto her side, her back to his chest. She was confused.

“Raise your leg,” he murmured, lifting her upper leg so it was bent at the knee. And then he eased into her wet, throbbing passage from behind, cupping her hips, pausing, full and heavy and straining inside her.

“Oh, Derek,” Miranda breathed.

He chuckled, a laugh of sexual power and desire. He moved slowly, languidly. “How does it feel?”

“So full. Derek…”

He reached up to fondle her breast as he stroked her slowly. He kissed the nape of her neck, her shoulder, the side of her throat. She gasped, unable to move because of their position, but wanting to, wanting more. She whimpered.

He understood, moved harder, with more determination. His hand stroked downward from her breast, over her belly, to the swollen pearl. He began moving faster and faster. When she cried out, he wrapped his arms around her, thrusting once, twice, shuddering, emptying all of himself into her, as much as he had to give. They lay damp and still except for their heavy breathing and their pounding hearts.

She turned onto her back. “And to think I once thought our lovemaking wrong.”

“You don’t anymore?”

Her eyes were older, wiser, hinting of sadness, tragedy. “Am I a fool?”

He wished he had been able to spare her the trials she had suffered. He put his arm around her, kissed her lightly.

“Derek?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t seem distressed anymore about my child.”

He took her hands. “I won’t lie to you. It’s hard. But I think I’ve conquered my anger, mostly.” He gazed at her seriously. “I’ll do my best, Miranda. I swear.”

“I know you will,” she said, smiling, faith glowing in her eyes, faith and love. “I think of your son sometimes,” she added.

He suddenly remembered a dream in which his newborn
son had changed into Chavez’s son. He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It occurred to me a long time ago that some Comanche family is raising your boy, and you’re going to raise a child with Comanche blood. Maybe this child is a gift from God.”

He stared at her. He didn’t believe this baby was a gift from God to replace his own child, but it struck him how the situations were exactly reversed—almost too much so to be coincidence. He was part Apache, Chavez part Comanche….

“God does work in mysterious ways.”

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “forget about God for a minute. Someone took in my boy and raised him as their own, undoubtedly needing him for lack of sons. Someone gave him care, and hopefully love.” He stared out the window.

“Just like you’re going to raise our child and care for him,” Miranda said. She knew he was struck by the coincidence of the parallel situations. She knew it was meant to be, and one day he would realize it, too.

He pulled her closer. “I can’t wait to take you home.”

She raised herself up. “Home?”

He looked into her eyes and saw her distress. “We’ll rebuild the JB,” he said. “It will be much safer than my own land, being close to San Antonio. That other time was a fluke, Mir—”

“No!”

They stared at each other, his heart sinking, her face fearful and set. When he spoke again, his voice was very calm. “Miranda, the JB was attacked because of Chavez—”

“No!” She was sitting, pulling the covers up. “I can’t. Derek, I love you. But I hate this land.”

He was afraid. “What would you like to do?”

“Let’s live in the city—any city. Even San Antonio. But I won’t, Derek, I won’t go live in that godforsaken wilderness, not now, not after I’ve found you again, not with the baby—Derek, you were almost killed!”

“I see,” he said.

Miranda reached for him. “Please. For me. Please.”

He tried to smile and failed. “All right, princess. You
know I would never force you to do something against your will.”

With a sob of relief, she catapulted into his arms.

He held her, wondering how they were going to make their marriage work. He then vowed that he would, no matter what.